


"Poetry Soothes and Emboldens the Soul."

by governess_of_floods



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit silly, Could be johnlock if you squint hard enough, Gen, Humour, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/governess_of_floods/pseuds/governess_of_floods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ella recommends writing poetry after Sherlock's fall. It doesn't work so well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Poetry Soothes and Emboldens the Soul."

“John.” Ella said, leaning forwards. “I know this is hard, but-”

 

“It's fine. I just need time.”

 

“You've lost someone. It's normal to feel like this, but emotion is an important part of the grieving process. You need to let go.” She paused. “I think this will help.”

 

John looked at her, warily. “What will help?”

 

Ella took a deep breath. “Have you tried writing poetry?”

 

–--

 

John sat at his desk, cursor blinking. How in the world had he let Ella cajole him into this?

 

Still, at least, unlike his blog, she wouldn't be seeing this.

 

John could just pretend he'd written something. She'd know he was lying through his teeth but there was nothing she would be able to do about it. Short of standing over him and forcing him to write poetry in his sessions with her... and wasn't that a horrible thought? She wouldn't. No. But just in case... maybe he should write something small. Who knew, maybe it would even help.

 

The cursor stared at him, challengingly.

 

John swore at it, and stamped off to make a cup of tea.

 

–--

 

Several attempts later, John was beginning to suspect that he was not, at heart, a poet.

 

_Sherlock. You rock(ed)._

 

Delete.

 

_You fell from grace/A darkened angel_

 

Oh, that sounded good. A rather elevated metaphor for a man who sulked like a toddler when John hid his cigarettes, (or forgot to buy the biscuits he liked, or asked him to please clear up the smears on the inside of the oven) perhaps, but it sounded good.

 

_Lucifer,_

 

Yes, keep the metaphor running! Lucifer was, indeed, a darkened angel.

 

Although did that mean he was equating Sherlock to Satan? John felt vaguely guilty. Even when he had decided, at five in the morning, that studying the rate of tissue decomposition in water by filling the bath with various body parts was an excellent idea, and John had rolled out of bed wrapped in the fuzziness of the recently asleep, turned on the shower and stepped into the bathtub and onto a hand... Sherlock had never been actually evil.

 

No. Delete.

 

_Missing you is like a hole in my heart. I shatter constantly, over and over. The world turned grey the moment you stepped up onto that ledge, spread your coat like an overgrown baby bird- did you know you couldn't fly, darling?_

 

John jerked upright. That was not what he meant. Darling?! No no no. Delete.

 

The trouble with poetry, as a medium, was that it all too easily turned mushy and decidedly romantic, John thought. He needed to be bold and prosaic and use the words to express his true feelings. To hell with style.

 

_You jumped. You let go of me, of the threads of your life that would have held you up, and you jumped._

 

_YOU ARE A FUCKING BASTARD FUCKING COCK SHERLOCK HOLMES AND I HOPE YOU'RE VERY HAPPY WITH YOURSELF._

 

_WANKER._

 

_There is still an ear in the bottom of the fridge._

 

_You always were a bloody idiot._

 

–--

 

“So, John,” Ella said, “How are you feeling? How did you find the poetry?”

 

John smiled angelically. “Oh yes. It helped a lot.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
